I rarely hailed a yellow ride

There always seemed to be

So many black ones passing by

With space to carry me



I wait, I hope, there’ll come along

A brightly painted lift

Yet on the kerbside I remain

Refuse at first to shift



Then slowly come to realise

Perhaps I have no choice

It is a futile mission

Waiting for a ghost Rolls Royce



And so I hail the next along

And make my deathly bed

Immersed in darkness I can see

A dead end lies ahead



As I vacate protective shell

Slam shut the open door

My journey ends

And trusted friends

Need carry me no more.